Galina sniffed. “It is not necessary to be friends to know she was well when we left.” Nesune wondered whether the woman knew that she pouted. Only the shape of her mouth perhaps, but one had to learn to live with one’s face. “Do you think he truly knew?” Galina went on. “That we had. . . . It is impossible. He must have been guessing.”
Nesune’s ears perked, though she continued to tap her lips. That was clearly an effort to change the subject, and a sign that Galina was nervous besides. Silence had held as long as it did because no one wanted to mention al’Thor and there seemed no other topic possible. Why did Galina not want to speak of Alviarin? The two certainly were not friends; it was a rare Red who had a friend outside her Ajah. Nesune filed the question in its own mental cubbyhole.
“If he was guessing, he could make his fortune at the fairs.” Coiren was no fool. Bombastic beyond all reason, but never a fool. “However ridiculous it might seem, we must assume he can sense saidar in a woman.”
“That might be disastrous,” Galina muttered. “No. It cannot be. He must have guessed. Any man who can channel would assume we would embrace saidar.”
The woman’s pout irritated Nesune. This entire expedition irritated her. She would have been more than happy to join it if asked, but Jesse Bilal had not asked; Jesse had practically shoved her onto her horse physically. However it might be in other Ajahs, the head of the Browns’ council was not expected to behave so. Worst of all, though, Nesune’s companions were so focused on young al’Thor that they seemed to have gone blind to all else.
“Do you have any notions,” she mused aloud, “as to the sister who shared our interview?”
It might not have been a sister—three Aielwomen seemed to turn up whenever she went into the Royal Library, and two could channel—but she wanted to see their reactions. She was not disappointed; or rather, she was. Coiren only sat up straight, but Galina stared. It was all Nesune could do not to sigh. They truly were blind. Only a few paces from a woman able to channel, and they had not sensed her because they could not see her.
“I don’t know how she was hidden,” Nesune went on, “but it will be interesting to discover.” It had to have been his work; they would have seen any weaving of saidar. They did not ask whether she was sure; they knew she always identified a guess.
“Confirmation that Moiraine is alive.” Galina settled back with a grim smile. “I suggest we set Beldeine to find her. Then we take her and bundle her into the basement. That takes her away from al’Thor, and we can carry her to Tar Valon along with him. I doubt he’ll even notice, so long as we let enough gold glitter under his nose.”
Coiren shook her head emphatically. “We have no more confirmation than we already had, not of Moiraine. It may be this mysterious Green. As far as finding whoever it is, I agree, but we must consider the rest carefully. I will not risk everything that has been so carefully planned. We must be aware that al’Thor is connected to this sister—whoever she may be—and that his plea for time may be only a strategy. Fortunately, we have time.” Galina nodded, however reluctantly; she would marry and settle on a farm before she risked their plans.
Nesune allowed herself a small sigh. Aside from pomposity, stating the obvious was Coiren’s only real fault. She did have a good mind, when she used it. And they did have time. Her foot touched one of the specimen boxes again. However events spun out, the paper she intended to write on al’Thor would be the culmination of her life.
CHAPTER
28
Letters
Lews Therin was there—Rand was sure of it—but not a whisper sounded in his head that was not his own. For the rest of the day he did try to think of other things, useless as they might be. Berelain was ready to jump out of her skin for the number of times he popped in on her to ask about something she was perfectly capable of handling without him; he was not sure, but he thought she started trying to avoid him. Even Rhuarc began to look a little hunted after the tenth time Rand cornered him over the Shaido; the Shaido had not stirred, and the only choices Rhuarc could see were to leave them in Kinslayer’s Dagger or dig them out. Herid Fel had wandered off, as Idrien quickly pointed out he often did, and was nowhere to be found; when Fel became lost in thought, he sometimes lost his way in the city, too. Rand shouted at her. Fel was not her fault, not her responsibility, but Rand left her white and trembling. His temper rippled like a line of thunderstorms sweeping in from the horizon. He shouted at Meilan and Maringil till they shook in their boots and left him with pasty faces, reduced Colavaere to incoherent tears and actually sent Anaiyella running with her skirts hiked to her knees. For that matter, when Amys and Sorilea came to ask what he had told the Aes Sedai, he shouted at them as well; from the look on Sorilea’s face as they stalked away, he suspected that might have been the first time anyone had ever raised voice to her. It was knowing—knowing—that Lews Therin was really there, more than a voice, a man hiding inside his head.
He was almost afraid to fall asleep when night came, afraid Lews Therin might seize control while he slept, and when he did sleep his troubled dreams made him toss and mutter. The first hint of light though the windows woke him in tangled sweat-soaked sheets, with grainy eyes, a mouth that tasted like a horse six days dead, and legs that ached. The dreams he remembered had all been of running from something he could not see. He levered himself out of the great four-posted bed and made his ablutions at the gilded washstand. With the sky just turning gray outside, the gai’shain who would bring fresh water had not appeared yet, but last night’s did well enough.
He had nearly finished shaving when he stopped, razor poised against his cheek, staring at himself in the mirror on the wall. Running. He had been sure it was the Forsaken he was running from in those dreams, or the Dark One, or Tarmon Gai’don, or maybe even Lews Therin. So full of himself; surely the Dragon Reborn would dream of being pursued by the Dark One. For all his protests that he was Rand al’Thor, it seemed that he could forget as easily as anyone else. Rand al’Thor had run away from Elayne, from his fear of loving Elayne, just as he had run from fear of loving Aviendha.
The mirror shattered, shards dropping into the porcelain washbasin. The pieces remaining in the frame cast back a fragmented image of his face.
Releasing saidin, he carefully scraped away the last bit of lather and folded the razor deliberately. No more running. He would do what he had t
